


what's here, we have

by andibeth82



Category: Lost
Genre: 1970s, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:46:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He pauses, fumbling with the front of his jumpsuit and the state of his being right now is so unlike James LaFleur (or James Ford, for that matter) that she’s momentarily caught off guard. “I ain’t so good with words."</p>
            </blockquote>





	what's here, we have

**Author's Note:**

> Fluffy, happy (for once!) DHARMA times, early relationship building. Idealizing the happier (and even if not so happy, tender-ish) moments that make these two so goshdarn melt-worthy in my eyes.

“Jesus – James – FUCK!” The words, punctuated with a dull thud, exit her mouth in an almost unintelligible string as she wheels herself angrily from underneath the bowels of the van. “Three goddamn months and you can’t even be bothered to radio someone when you’re coming over?” She whips off her goggles and he finds himself thinking if looks could actually kill he’d be in the ground ten times over.  
  
“Didn’t realize you were countin’.” He takes a step back as she angles herself off the creeper, sighs and crosses her arms.  
  
“I’m not counting.” There’s a hint of grudging acceptance in her voice, barely detectable underneath the curt frustration but he catches it all the same and in the heat of the moment, chooses to ignore its presence.  
  
“Well, sorry for puttin’ an interruption on your afternoon date with van number four, here.” He bangs against the side of the vehicle once for good measure. “Just came by to tell you that our charmin’ friend Mr. Goodspeed is organizin’ some fancypants party tonight. Figured with your head in the grease pool all day, you’d miss the gossip.”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “I’m a mechanic, James, not a prisoner. We do talk about things besides pistons and engines and motor oil.”  
  
“Sure, but who’s gonna be man enough to tell you that you have tire dirt on your nose when you show up at someone’s doorstep?” He swipes gently at her face and against her better judgment, she finds herself starting to smile.  
  
“If I go with you to this party, will you at least promise that you won’t go off with Miles again? I can’t stand talking to these people without knowing I have some sort of escape route.”  
  
He slides a hand around her waist, feeling her muscles clench slightly at the touch.  
  
“Don’t you worry, Blondie. I got your back.”  
  
  
+  
  
  
There are things about living with James that after awhile, become almost second nature. He takes too long in the shower, and never caps the shampoo after he’s used it. He’ll be a pain in the ass about his glasses, but doesn’t take them off if he knows she’s looking because of that one time she mentioned that she finds him more attractive when he has four eyes. She’s the early riser, and he never wakes up before nine except if he’s being called into work unexpectedly.  
  
So when she wakes promptly at 7 a.m. and finds herself uncharacteristically alone, she’s confused and alert and a little concerned. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she peers into the bathroom, squinting in the harsh overhead light as she makes her way down the hall.  
  
“James?”  
  
Silence. She finds him sitting in the living room amongst crudely designed upholstery, staring blankly at the wall, his jumpsuit half undone.

“Hey.” She approaches slowly and places a hand on his shoulder. “Everything okay?” He looks up with an expression that she can’t quite place.

“Did I wake you?”  
  
“Do you ever wake me?” She pushes hair behind his ear and he half smiles, getting up off the couch.  
  
“Horace needs me to lead some early mornin’ recruit session on new fence procedures,” he all but mumbles, not sure how she even gets what he’s saying out of the mess of words that he’s just spewed but somehow she understands.  
  
“So you’re freaking out about talking to a bunch of hippies who probably did too many drugs last night to take you seriously,” she deadpans, her mouth tugging upwards. He doesn’t smile back though, just lets his eyes find the floor.  
  
“It’s – I mean.” He pauses, fumbling with the front of his jumpsuit and the state of his being right now is so unlike James LaFleur (or James Ford, for that matter) that she’s momentarily caught off guard. “I ain’t so good with words.”  
  
“And yet I seem to remember that you never had a problem mouthing off when you felt like it.” She dutifully steps forward, tugging at the zipper, and he watches as her steady hands secure his shaking ones.  
  
“Yeah, well.” He raises his eyes to the ceiling and she can tell he’s avoiding her gaze. “Never had to think of what to say when I was on Craphole Island Power Trip Duty against the Doc.”  
  
Juliet places one hand against his chest and reaches for his chin, drawing his face level with her own.  
  
“Relax, James. You’re going to do great. I know you.”  
  
She kisses him once before handing over his boots, fingers wrapped securely around the dangling rope of shoelaces.  
  
  
+  
  
  
“Five months.”  
  
“Oh come on, Miles. Be realistic,” James glares as his friend smirks from across the room.  
  
“I am being realistic.” He makes a notation on his report and then puts the stem of the pencil in his mouth, as if he’s seriously contemplating the situation. “If it was me and I had any balls, I’d have done it in two.”  
  
“So let’s be glad you don’t got any,” James grumbles with all the sarcasm he can muster before turning his gaze back to the security cameras. Not that there’s anything remotely interesting to look at except for some blank landscapes, because of course there isn’t and curse the fact that no one could have any type of big emergency when he needed a distraction. Couldn’t Horace have picked a night to get drunk when he was being interrogated by Miles rather than a night when he was in the middle of, well, something more important? Like watching Juliet read in bed, which he’s come to realize is a bigger turn-on than he’ll ever admit to.  
  
“You know, if you just did it already, I’d stop bugging you.” And James suddenly thinks that it’s definitely not possible for his eyes to roll back any farther without being pronounced clinically dead.  
  
“No you wouldn’t.”  
  
To his credit, Miles only looks slightly hurt before he smirks again. “Okay, you’re right. I wouldn’t. But Jesus Christ, man. It’s the 70’s. And Jin’s great and all, but I got no form of entertainment around here if you guys aren’t at least macking.”  
  
For just a moment, James wonders how his friend would react if he really let loose and hell, maybe a slap on the face would do Miles and his mouth some good. But instead of overtly reacting he just clenches his jaw, goes back to watching the security cameras and rubs a hand over his chin.  
  
“You’re a goddamn pain in the ass, Miles.”  
  
  
+  
  
  
“They’re taking bets?” Juliet’s voice is mildly amused and James is a little bit disappointed because of all the emotions that he expected from this news, that one hadn’t been on the short list. He continues anyway.  
  
“Yeah. Caught Miles givin’ me grief today about why we haven’t taken to each other yet, then I find out that Jin’s got a slip of paper in his drawer with a buncha numbers on it. I mean, Miles I expected, but Jin of all people!” He practically spits out the last sentence and she’s quiet for a moment before turning to face him.  
  
“Why haven’t we?”  
  
“Excuse me?” That _definitely_ wasn’t on the short list of reactions, and James feels his eyebrows shoot into his forehead as Juliet continues slicing carrots.  
  
“Why haven’t we?” She places the knife on the cutting board, conveniently ignoring his gaping mouth in a way that makes him think she might actually be enjoying this exchange.  
  
“If I remember correctly, _you’re_ the one who wanted to take it slow.” And he’s pretty damn sure he remembers correctly, because his mind had been caught in a state of disbelief the moment he thought they were actually going to sleep together only to find out with her face inches from his own that she was fine doing “this” but that she wasn’t ready to go “there.” Yet. And as disappointed as James had been with this information, he had backed off because it was a damn near miracle he’d gotten her to look at him this way in the first place and therefore he certainly wasn’t going to screw up a potentially good thing just because he wanted to get some.  
  
Juliet smiles. “And I appreciate the fact that you’ve respected my request. Really. I’m just saying, they’re guys. They're bored. It’s not unreasonable for them to be a little antsy.”  
  
“So what you’re sayin’ is that you’re all of a sudden just _okay_ with this whole intimacy deal? Me inside you, screamin’ your name, hot and heavy, that sort of thing?” He watches a smile ghost over her lips. “Hell, I’ll do you right here, right now, vegetables be damned.”  
  
She shoots him a look. “For our first time, I was hoping for something a little more romantic.”  
  
And his response to that is to pick her up, place her on the counter and stick his tongue behind her ear, circling the spot he was so damn proud of finding a few weeks ago. Before she “wasn’t ready.” It’s only seconds (maybe minutes, but it feels like seconds) before his mouth is on hers and their clothes are on the floor and the counter is slick beneath them and damn, he can’t wait to gloat to Miles about how good this is because it’s really, _really_ good.  
  
When their breathing returns to something resembling a normal rate, he picks up her naked body, cradling her with two arms, and ambles towards the bedroom. She’s grinning and he’s grinning and there’s a silent battle of who’s going to be the first to break the silence.  
  
She wins.  
  
“How’s that for romantic?”  
  
  
+  
  
  
He hadn’t meant to do this, not to this extent, he told himself he would be better than the man he was 30 years ago (or the man he will be 30 years from now.) So he tries hard, really hard, tries to keep himself together for most of the day, throws himself into work and takes on way too many things at once until even Horace looks at him strangely and tells him he’s been working for ten hours straight.

"Go home, Jim. Take a load off. Relax."  
  
And so James does. He goes home, finds an empty house (of all the nights that it’s her turn to close up shop, and he can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing), a half-empty bottle of tequila and starts to drink. He drinks until he has no idea what’s going on or what time it is and he only becomes aware of his surroundings when he feels someone wrap an arm around his shoulders.  
  
“Goddamn mess…” He wrenches away from the hold and continues to stumble down the hall, pitching forward before he’s grabbed again by gentle hands that ease him onto what he thinks might be a bed.  
  
“It’s fine,” she says (or he thinks she says) quietly as he jerks forward, shaking his head resolutely against the pain he feels building behind his eyes.  
  
“I would’ve. I would've left you behind.” And he’s not even sure why he says it but thinking seems like too much trouble right now so when she pushes him back down onto the pillow, he lets himself fall into unconsciousness while trying to ignore the way his stomach is churning back and forth.  
  
He apologizes the next day, as soon as he feels like he can move without everything spinning though it doesn’t make him feel any less shitty about what he said and what he did. He wonders how long it will take before all this guilt subsides.  
  
“I didn’t want to do that, you know. Not here. I don’t…”  
  
“It’s fine.” Same goddamn words as last night (or he thinks it is, there’s a lot that’s fuzzy including the fact that he apparently was able to finish off a bottle of tequila without his head being permanently stuck in the toilet bowl.) When he looks up, she’s handing him a coffee, her eyes gentle. Their fingers linger against each other.  
  
He clutches the porcelain mug and they sit in silence for a while before he feels like he just owes it to her to be honest. Because for as long as they’re here, there’s always gonna be another July and he’s never gonna be able to control himself and if she hadn’t walked out yet, not after the fights and the drunken stupor and the inability to clean up after himself and the leering (though almost always joking) sarcastic comments, then maybe he’s worth it after all.  
  
“Wasn’t the first.”  
  
She wraps her fingers around his hands, a singular touch of comfort and understanding, and looks him straight in the eye before she speaks.

“It won’t be the last.”  
  
(She’s right.)  
  
(It’s not.)  
  
(But that doesn’t matter.)  
  
\--

  
END.


End file.
